


waking felt like (tarnished silver)

by bene_elim



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, i mean its not THAT bad but still, it's zelda so like what do u expect, non graphic description of fighting, non graphic description of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: Link wakes up without memories, so he has to learn what death is.-When the Old Man found him, he had the task of explaining death to him. Death, he had said, comes to us all, and to some faster than others. Death on her swift sandals comes to us all, but it is your duty to make sure it comes to monsters like that bokoblin.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	waking felt like (tarnished silver)

**Author's Note:**

> hi its literally 3am and i wrote this in half an hour by sprinting on a discord server so no beta!!! i havent even read through it myself, i just wanted to get it posted!!! so expect lots of mistakes :)))))   
> also sorry not sorry for hurting link!!!!   
> the title is my own, no poetry this time (its 3am pls give me a break)

Waking felt like tarnished silver: it was gleaming, underneath the grogginess. Waking sounded like chiming bells: echoing but clear. Waking tasted like copper: bloody.

The issue was, Link thought absently, that no-one thought about how this Shrine would affect him. Waking alone, on an isolated plateau with only the ghost of a king to keep him company, was not _really_ waking up at all.

What was waking up, truly, if not finding yourself at the sharp end of a sword?

It was having to fight back. It was having to realise that his muscles knew exactly what to do, even if his heart didn’t. It was having to stick his own sword through the heart of a monster.

It was standing slick with sticky bloody, sick to his stomach.

He’d thrown up all over himself. Good thing he’d worn the tatty, old shirt he had found and the common trousers – now they needed a wash. And who was going to do that, when he couldn’t even pick himself up? Vomit and blood. He stunk. Waking up smelt like vomit and blood.

It had been a bokoblin. A ‘monster’, as the Old Man had informed him days later. He had no issue with what Link had done, thought it noble and right. Link wondered how anything noble and right could smell so foul.

Here’s how it went:

_A sword tip, swung, catching just the edge of Link’s top. He swirled around, dizzied with the speed of it but desperate to see what had happened, and caught sight of it: the orange monstrosity which could almost be sweet if not for the snarling, teeth-bearing sneer on its face. Its pig’s snout sniffed him once, twice, before the sword came swiping again; this time, muscle memory made Link jump backwards and out the way. Immediately, reflexively, his hand came up to his own sword, sheathed at his back, but he hesitated to draw it; he did not know why._

_When the creature swung again, he drew his sword and countered the attack, parried this way and that, avoided each and every one of the monster’s blows. He’d feint left and the creature would fall for it, then he’d strike on its right side, but never too hard. He was scared, for some reason, of striking too hard._

_On and on it went, neither landing particularly damaging blows to the other. Link was on the defensive most of the time, but it didn’t expend much effort: he was simply… confused._

_Eventually, the monster lunged at him and Link had no choice but to plunge his sword into its chest. It squelched sickeningly, and he was sure he could feel its still beating heart pulse against the metal of the weapon, before it grew still. The creature slumped forward on the sword. Link had to pry it off, bloodying himself in the process._

And here’s how it went:

_The stream was cold and the water ran quickly and easily. Blink and you’d miss it, the blood washed away from the fabric of Link’s shirt and trousers. If he’d known anything besides his own name (and death, death, death), he would be reminded of a scene from a famous piece of Hylian literarture, where young maidens are caught washing their garments by a man by accident. But since all he knew was his name (and death, death, death), it was lost on Link, who continued to stare blankly at his scrubbing hands._

_He didn’t really know about death. All he knew is that his actions caused a monster to stop moving. Forever._

And here’s how it went:

_When the Old Man found him, he was still kneeling by the brook, still scrubbing at fabric now blood-free. And when the Old Man found him, he was still thinking about how sick he had been. Vomit and blood, waking was vomit and blood and it was tarnished silver and chiming bells. Waking was woeful, he had decided, eventually._

_When the Old Man found him, he had the task of explaining death to him. Death, he had said, comes to us all, and to some faster than others. Death on her swift sandals comes to us all, but it is your duty to make sure it comes to monsters like that bokoblin._

_Monsters, Link had thought. He had brought about the stillness of a creature and yet he wasn’t considered the monster,_ it _was? How could that be right?_

_Monsters, the Old Man had said, deserve the pain of death. But Link thought, aren’t I also a monster?_

_  
But Link thought, shouldn’t I also deserve death?_

_But Link thought, should I have woken up at all?_

_But, Link thought. But, but, but; death, death, death. Tarnished silver and blood and vomit._  
  
Now Link is accustomed to death. She follows him like a loyal pet: he is in command of her, he leads her by her leash. He rains down death and each of his tears hits its mark.

That shirt, those trousers – they’d stunk of blood and vomit for months. Water can only cleanse so much, after all, and Link felt his soul tarnished (silver) so how can his clothes ever be truly clean when he can’t?

So, in his cottage on the edge of Hateno, waking was woeful. And he swore that he would like to never do it again, except he was expected to, every day. The scent of blood and vomit might no longer linger in his nostrils but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t catch sniffs of it. He was death’s commander and he was to command her to take out the monsters around the village, the monsters at the bay, the monsters on the way to Kakariko. Monsters, monsters, monster. Who was truly the monster?

So, in his cottage on the edge of Hateno, Link considered his learning curve. Relearning death was as woeful as waking.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading...,,,,,,, (i love comments!!)


End file.
